THERE'S A WAR ON

I heard thudding footsteps, the door opened a crack and a blond lady peered out.

"Yes?" she said.   “Have you got nothing better to do?  Go away.”

"I'm Jane," I said, "and I'm looking for my f... father."

“You perishing kids think you're so funny," snapped the woman.  I told your friend yesterday to stop ringing my doorbell.  Go on, scarper, or I'll call the cops."   And she slammed the door in my face.

I stood there with my mouth wide open.  Then I turned and slipped down against the wall until I was sitting on the cold, hard floor.  Now what?  I'd come all this way for nothing.  So much for my quest.  I'd tried and I'd failed.

Through misty eyes I looked down at my red bag resting on the marble floor beside me.  The catch had come undone and I saw Harry's Swan Vestas box of Biggles money.  Harry'd said of course we'd win the war.  We English, like St. George never gave up. 

I clicked the bag closed and stood up.  My fringe was my visor and the red bag, my lance.  I rushed at the door of number Four. 

I kicked it, I hammered on it with my bag and I screamed.

"You come back," I yelled.  "I'm Jane Patterson, and I've bloody well come to find my father!"